


Hurts You Less

by pineapplefork



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Panic Attacks, Sensory Overload, take all these tags with a grain of salt, the panic and overstimulation are potion-induced for geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24143371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pineapplefork/pseuds/pineapplefork
Summary: "He expected a lot of things. Geralt bathing, for one. Even covered in blood or bruises or guts or all three of them. Or him pacing around the room, deep in thought. Jaskier even expected to find him sleeping or meditating. But he absolutely didn’t expect to find Geralt curled in on himself, still in his armour, dry sobs wracking his body."***Geralt sometimes plans poorly for fights and has to deal with the consequences. Jaskier is there to help, until he isn't.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 193





	Hurts You Less

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind that I haven't watched the show, my knowledge is limited to snippets from the books and the games. That said, I'm helplessly fond of Netflix's version of Dandelion. Protect at all costs.
> 
> CW: Geralt takes a potion that enhances his senses in a context where he's easily overwhelmed. After the first "***", it's not explicitly detailed from Geralt's POV, but it is talked about once.

It wasn’t often that Geralt prepared inadequately for a fight. During the rare instances when it did happen, it was usually the result of external factors outside of Geralt’s control: frightened villagers who didn’t tell him the whole truth, unpredictable weather and other things of the sort. Despite this, decades of experience built on the instinct to plan ahead for the worst. He always had additional potions, including White Honey in case the toxicity levels threatened to overwhelm him, always carried hidden silver daggers and kept his senses sharp even when his surroundings seemed safe.

Still, at some point, it was all bound to deviate from his carefully constructed plans. This time, it shouldn’t have been too big a hassle, of course he didn’t pack accordingly. The village he and the bard stopped in had a ghoul problem, a nest not too far north. The war had left its marks on the villagers, too — resources were scarce, there was a desperate lack of healers and there weren’t even enough pairs of hands to properly bury the ever-increasing number of corpses — which lead, much to the ghouls’ grotesque pleasure, to a perfect place for them to feast. Judging by the dissaray in which the village found itself, the dead were too many to deal with even without the impending danger of a monster nest nearby.

Naturally, Geralt had done what he felt was necessary and offered his help in exchange for a meal, a room for two people in the run-down shack they called an inn and a stable for Roach. The three of them had been travelling for a while and even Geralt could feel that it was high time they bathed and slept with a roof over their heads, even for just a night.

So, after leaving Jaskier to work his musical magic— that’s what the bard insisted he was doing when he strummed a few chords and batted his lashes at the innkeeper’s wife to charm her into a hot meal— Geralt set out do destroy the ghoul nest. It wasn’t a hard task in itself, but its proximity to the village meant that there was a risk of luring them towards it if he wasn’t careful. He would need to be light on his feet and strain his senses a little bit in order to make sure that none of the ghouls escaped after he’d blow up their nest.

He’d downed a potion that he really wasn’t fond of, the revoltingly bitter taste and feeling of acid down his throat twisting his stomach painfully, but it greatly sharpened his senses and he needed it if he was to actually be of help to the villagers. Having already oiled his silver sword with Necrophage Oil, he felt for the Grapeshot bomb at his belt and, assured he was propely equiped, went on stalking his prey.

His gaze swept across the open field littered with corpses, looking for any sort of unnatural movement. He couldn’t see the nest from his position, but he could smell the characteristic scent of a creature who fed on rotten flesh not too far from him. To his surprise, the field seemed undisturbed. Deciding to move along, he silently followed the pungent smell of what had to be the nest.

The stillness of his surroundings deeply unsettled Geralt, dread quickly pooling in his gut. It was always disorienting when the information he got through his sensory organs didn’t match up: he could definitely smell ghouls nearby, but the marks he saw on the ground were not quite recent and he couldn’t hear steps or breathing. Still, he followed the scent trail, trying to focus. The potion was made to help him single out other stimuli in favour of a select few, but when there were none, it gave him headaches and generally, a hard time.

When he reached the nest he felt his skin crawl. There laid a large pile of what had to be at least eight ghouls — dead ghouls. Judging by the stench, they had been freshly killed, too, recently enough for Geralt not to discern between the smell of a corpse and a corpse-eater. But how? Had another witcher found the nest before him? It seemed improbable, but ghouls were certainly not easily overpowered by humans, especially in packs. He didn’t smell anything burning or see any signs of an explosion, which meant that whoever had killed the ghouls carelessly left the nest intact. Feeling his senses suddenly overwhelmed, he chucked the Grapeshot at the nest and dashed away, toward the village.

Geralt had expected to have to stalk, hunt and kill ghouls for at least a few hours, which left him with the sour smell of a freshly oiled sword, the gut-wretching stench of death insistent in his lungs and the aftermath of blowing up a nest while he was still under the potion’s effect: a shrill ringing in his ears and an oncoming migraine. He wished he hadn’t forgotten to brew White Honey before this fight.

As he begrudgingly pushed the door to the inn open, his eyes unconsciously scanned for Jaskier. But the room was too loud, the drunken shrieks and yelps scraping his ears, the constant movement hard to follow with his eyes. Geralt felt dizzy. The potion definitely wasn’t meant for crowded places which smelled like sweat and alcohol and spit. He flinched as a barmaid put a hand on his arm, in a gesture that felt scorching hot instead of comforting. His vision blurred at the edges, but he recognized the woman as one of the polite ones, ever grateful for his willingness to help. He watched her mouth move, but he could barely make out the sounds save for a few syllables.

‘Bard,’ he eventually gritted out, ‘Where?’

She looked almost offended, but Geralt wasn’t about to dwell on that. ‘Upstairs. He left not too long ago.’ He didn’t get to answer, as she spun around and got lost in the sea of people. Geralt made an unsteady effort to climb the stairs to what he remembered to be the room they rented for the night, and pushed the door open.

He had almost expected to find his bard — his? the bard in their room, bath salts ready, his hands oiled with chamomile and a warm smile on his face. But perhaps he had grown too accustomed to Jaskier’s pampering after a fight, because he found none of that.

Instead, a migraine found him as he swayed to the bed and promptly plopped himself down on it. His head pounded, his bones felt heavy, his muscles trembled and he couldn’t manage to shut out the onslaught of stimuli. Visually, at least, he was safe in the dimly-lit room, but he could still hear voices from other rooms and smell something suspiciously similar to sex. Involuntarily, Geralt focused his hearing and settled on some sort of squeaking noise. It was the only regular thing, continuous and almost soothing to his senses. If he concentrated on that, it would be easier for him to ignore the faint moans and the distinct smell of arousal and sweat and… Jaskier?

Geralt’s ears perked up. He felt betrayed by his own body. Why, of all things, did he have to smell the fucking bard? No, scratch that, the bard fucking. The squeaking lost its regular rhythm, Geralt could no longer focus and he heard everything. A woman’s moans, the sound of skin slapping against skin, a slight stutter only seconds later and a deep, guttural groan, unmistakable for what it was. He desperately tried to wheel his thoughts away from the sounds, but the potion hadn’t worn off, his senses were going into overdrive with the smells and sounds that he could feel so clearly, almost as if Jaskier was having sex right next to him. Geralt hadn’t even noticed his breathing get ragged, his pulse picking up and dread pooling in his stomach.

There had been a silent pause which allowed him to quickly assess his state, but the silence he momentarily basked in promptly dissipated when he heard creaking, shuffling and the woman speak.

‘Aren’t you staying, buttercup? I thought you didn’t back down from a promise.’ Her sickly sweet voice echoed in Geralt’s head. He gripped at the sheets, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to ignore the pain rising through his temples. It was the first time he reacted so poorly to this potion, but, then again, he had never felt its effects outside of a fight.

The sound of lips smacking filled his head like cotton. ‘I’m sorry, my fair lady, but I only promised you what I could give. My friend should return soon from his mission and I intend to talk to the innkeeper about a good meal for tomorrow.’ Whatever warmth Jaskier’s smooth refusal provided him was quickly pushed aside by the sheer disgust he felt in the woman’s reply.

‘Friend? You mean that Witcher freak of yours?’ The headache worsened as a wild roar erupted from downstairs, presumably the result of a drunken brawl. He decidedly ignored the spike of pain that shot through his chest at the woman’s words. Geralt damned his own carelessness as frantic yells downstairs melted together with the sound of chairs snapping and glass breaking. He curled into a ball on the bed and shook together with the walls of the inn. He wanted it all to stop. Invisible needles pricked at his skin while the phrase “Witcher freak” spun inside his foggy mind.

***

As soon as the words “Witcher freak” came out of the woman’s mouth, Jaskier felt bile rise up in his throat. He had kissed the lips that had curled into such a pretty smile, but right then he felt nothing but disdain.

‘You do realise that we’re lovers, right? He’d just sucked my cock before you followed up— quite enthusiastically, might I add— and dare I say that he does it better than you.’

Jaskier was petty, he knew that. Everything that had just come out of his mouth was a lie, but the shock on the woman’s face as she processed his words was worth it. He didn’t bother to listen for a reply before grabbing his clothes and strutting out of the room.

He really did need to talk to the innkeeper, because Geralt would be back any time now and judging by how insistent he was that Jaskier stayed at the inn, it had probably been quite dangerous. He’d have to pester for all the details about the ghoul nest later, because as he skipped down the stairs, toward the entrance, he could feel the vibrations of the brawl through the floor. He somehow managed to avoid the rioting mass of drunks and snuck behind the counters, into some sort of kitchen.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked the innkeeper, a burly man who was definitely panicking about the commotion inside his inn, judging by how easily he startled and the wide-eyed look he gave Jaskier.

‘I have no idea. I-I tried to stop them, but I barely managed to duck out of the way as one threw a chair at me! A damned chair!’ the man stammered, obviously afraid.

Jaskier eyed him suspiciously. ‘What started this? It wasn’t Geralt, was it?’ He supposed that, if Geralt had been in the middle of it all, it would have involved a lot more blood and a lot less chair-throwing, but one could never be sure.

‘No, the Witcher arrived a little before the fight broke out, I think he went upstairs.’ Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up at that. Geralt shouldn’t have arrived that early, it had barely been half an hour since he left. Something was up, definitely, especially since he would have gone looking for Jaskier right after he saw he wasn’t playing for the crowd nor in their room. He had to check up on Geralt. Jaskier made a move to leave, but the man grabbed his arm pleadingly.

‘Please, you have to do something about the crowd. They’re going to break this building apart!’

Jaskier really didn’t understand why the burly, scary-looking man couldn’t do it himself, but he supposed it was just as well. He’d want to rest afterwards, Geralt too, probably, and the noise in the tavern didn’t seem to subside.

He gave the man a curt nod. ‘I’ll deal. But I want a good meal tomorrow morning, is that possible?’

With the innkeeper’s promise hopefully held, he snuck back into the entrance room and silently climbed onto one of the few tables remaining, where he had a view of most of the people in the room. They all looked drunk off their asses. Assesing his possibilities, he decided to try the only idea he had and hope. Placing two fingers in his mouth, he whistled. Loudly. Maybe fifty pairs of blood-shot eyes turned to look at him.

Good. Jaskier got their attention. ‘I know your village has been wrecked by war. I know times are tough and it shows both in the quality of life and the quality of the ale.’ Murmurs of agreement swept throughout the room and Jaskier felt a little sorry for the inkeepers. ‘But I want you to know that my friend, Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, successfully dealt with your ghoul problem! Your dead will no longer be marred by corpse-eaters!’A moment of silence. Two, three. Then, a voice.

‘A round of ale for everyone, on the house!’ the burly man yelled, brave enough to come out of hiding.

Suddenly, laughter and cheer errupted. Jaskier shrugged. He didn’t think giving more ale to the drunk would do any good, but they eventually calmed down. He mouthed “bath?” to the innkeeper after he came out with a tray of tankards and got an enthusiastic nod as a response. Finally. Sighing, he walked up the stairs, to his and Geralt’s room, where a bath should have been waiting from before the Witcher had arrived.

He expected a lot of things. Geralt bathing, for one. Even covered in blood or bruises or guts or all three of them. Or him pacing around the room, deep in thought. Jaskier even expected to find him sleeping or meditating. But he absolutely didn’t expect to find Geralt curled in on himself, still in his armour, dry sobs wracking his body. He immediately crouched down next to him and touched his forehead, looking for signs of fever. Geralt instantly pulled away, as if scorched, eyes squeezed shut, heaving.

Jaskier was at a loss. ‘Geralt, love,’ he spoke softly, ‘what’s going on? Can you hear me?’ He waited for an answer, worry rising up in his throat.

‘Jas—’ Geralt managed between shallow breaths.

‘I’m here. Hey, look at me. Please.’

‘Potion,’ he whispered, voice hoarse. ‘Senses. Too much.’

Jaskier thought he understood. Hoped he understood. ‘White Honey?’ Geralt shook his head. ‘What can I do?’ This seemed eerily familiar to Jaskier. Not the potion’s effects, but Geralt’s manifestation of being overwhelmed. He kept his voice low, careful not to blow too much air onto him. ‘Has this ever happened to you before?’ Another shake of the head. ‘It has, to me, but I’m not sure if it’s the same. No potions were involved, but I got overwhelmed too. Sometimes, it helps to focus on a constant stimulus. Can you hear my voice, Geralt? Would you like me to stop talking?’ He kept his voice even, careful with his inflections. Geralt shook his head again. ‘Good, thank you. I’m going to start drumming a little beat on the table, simple and constant. I want you to focus on it too, then I’ll talk you through it.’Geralt nodded. His breaths were slowly evening out, even though his posture was still tense.

One, two, three. One, two three. Jaskier’s fingers played a slow rhythm on the wooden table. ‘I want you to focus on my words. Try to count things you feel with me. One, you’re on a bed. Two, your head is on a pillow. Three, your armour is on you, shielding you. You’re used to its weight. Four, your hands are touching the sheets. Five, your hair is touching your cheeks. Did you manage to feel all that?

Another small nod. Jaskier still saw tension in Geralt’s shoulders. ‘The room is dark. Can you open your eyes for me?’

At first, he didn’t think Geralt would. But he did, slowly, even though his hands gripped the sheets harder. Jaskier smiled. He was still crouching, so he could see eye to eye with Geralt. ‘Try to breathe with me, can you? It’s been almost an hour since you took the potion, I assume. It should wear off soon.’ Jaskier didn’t know that, not precisely. But Geralt didn’t protest, so he hoped his words were at least reassuring. ‘Tell me when it’s safe to touch. I’m here.’Jaskier kept talking, counting his breaths and adding in small words of encouragement. A little while passed until Geralt’s hands relaxed and his shoulders lost most of the tension they were carrying. His eyes had fluttered shut along the way, but he looked more tired than overwhelmed, which was definitely better.

It didn’t take too long for Geralt to start moving again, stretching out of his curled up position. Jaskier ignored the way his knees protested when he got up from the crouch he held for too long, having been too worried to startle his Witcher. When he thought those worries were no longer relevant, he went to check the water inside the basin. Pleasantly warm, he found, surprised. It must’ve been very hot when they brought it in, just like Jaskier had asked before he got whisked away by the woman he’d just slept with.

‘Jaskier?’ Geralt croaked from behind him. Jaskier turned to look at Geralt,his brows furrowed and hands rubbing at his temples. He looked better, at least, and Jaskier felt warm inside.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asked, slowly approaching the bed.

‘I think the effects wore off, but I can feel the aftermath. My head hurts.’ Geralt closed his eyes. Jaskier stopped a few steps away from him, unsure of himself. ‘Thank you.’ Geralt didn’t open them again, which was probably for the best, lest he saw how Jaskier’s eyes widened and how his cheeks filled with warmth. He didn’t think he had ever heard Geralt say those words to him, unprompted.

‘Ah, you’re welcome. Glad I could help.’ Something felt off. Geralt kept his eyes closed, and Jaskier didn’t know what to do. Should he sit? Stand? Fuss over Geralt? Should he ask about what happened or should he leave it for another day? Maybe —‘You smell like her.’

Jaskier’s mind stopped in its tracks. ‘Huh?’

‘I heard you. And smelled you. You were fucking someone, when I arrived. You smell like her.’

‘Ah, I—’ Jaskier didn’t know what to say, until he remembered his conversation with the woman. Oh, Gods. I told her he sucked my dick. Oh shit, oh fuck. ‘Uh, did you hear anything else, too?’ He didn’t know how to ask. Geralt lifted an eyebrow.

‘That she called me a Witcher freak, yes.’

Jaskier thought he let his relief show a bit too soon, because something that looked like hurt flashed across Geralt’s face, gone as quick as it came. He looked at the Witcher and cleared his throat. ‘Did you— is that all?’

Geralt lifted the other eyebrow, too. ‘Was there more?’

‘No! Definitely not. Got out of there as quickly as I could, hah. She wasn’t even good.’ Jaskier was stammering, now, he knew it.

‘You sure? It didn’t sound like “she wasn’t even good”.’

If Jaskier’s cheeks had only warmed a little bit before, he was definitely flushed now. Not that he didn’t like the idea of Geralt listening in, he absolutely did, but in the context of what had looked like sheer panic and an inability to shut out outside stimuli, it wasn’t as sexy as he would’ve wished. He desperately wanted to change the subject. ‘The bath is still slightly warm. Might not be as hard on your skin.’‘You first. I can’t say I’ve really fought today, and if you want to sleep in this room tonight you’re getting that stench off.’

Jaskier felt slightly offended, but something churned inside him when he looked at Geralt’s expression: his gaze was lowered, his lips pursed. Something was definitely wrong. ‘What happened, darling?’ he murmured, taking a step toward the bed.

Jaskier watched as the Witcher made eye contact with him, looking more vulnerable than he had ever seen him. He almost felt sick, how good it felt to have Geralt look at him like that, just once. Open, earnest, full of emotion. ‘Ghouls were all dead. Only had to destroy the nest. Took an enhancing potion for nothing.’Geralt looked away and a little part of him crumbled. Jaskier felt compelled to raise his chin up with a touch, harsher than he intended. ‘That’s not all I asked.’

The Witcher huffed out a breath. ‘I’m fine, go bathe.’ His voice was strained.

‘You didn’t look fine before and even though you seem better, you don’t look fine now either.’ Jaskier pursed his lips, watching Geralt intently. ‘You’re shaking.’

He suddenly stiffened, looking like a child caught with a lie, and grunted.

‘A grunt isn’t going to do it. Talk to me.’

Another grunt. Silence. Then, ‘You still smell like her.’

Jaskier felt exasperated and he was sure it showed. ‘If I bathe, will you talk to me?’

A grunt, again. Jaskier sighed and padded to the basin, going through the motions of getting in the tub, washing himself and getting out without thinking too hard about what he was doing. His mind was focused on Geralt, which, ironically, didn’t allow him to notice his fixed gaze until he got out of the tub and dried himself.

‘Like what you see?’ he couldn’t help but add, more mocking than anything.

‘I no longer hate what I smell, is that enough?’ Geralt’s eyes still watched Jaskier’s every move, not scrutinising, but keenly observant. He was used to it, but he wished he’d get Geralt back to that vulnerable state, if only to understand what was wrong and how to help him.

‘Great. Now get your lovely bottom in the tub and let me help you.’ Jaskier was smiling, but the edges were sharp. He tried to bring back the fickle of warmth that he felt whenever Geralt was in a mood, a longing sort of fondness, but he felt like he was grasping at straws. Instead of focusing on the emptiness in his chest, he waited for Geralt to get in the tub and, again, went through the familiar motions of helping him wash without thinking them through. He wasn’t sure where his mind was going, but he let it wander while his hands massaged Geralt’s scalp and brushed through his hair.

Geralt’s shoulders were softly being kneaded when he spoke. ‘You still smell different.’ He felt hands tightening on the muscles for a second, before they let go completely. If Geralt had been relaxed before, Jaskier would have probably noticed the tension suddenly seeping through his muscles — but he hadn’t managed to disregard the unease, so Jaskier probably hadn’t noticed. Geralt watched as the bard threw the small towel from his shoulder to the chair next to the tub and walked away, not facing him.

‘You can wash yourself. Don’t wait for me.’ And then he was gone.

Geralt didn’t. He didn’t wash himself nor did he wait. He pulled himself out of the tub, briefly dried his limbs and torso and sat on the bed. Of course the bard had left. Of course Jaskier would eventually leave. It was about time, really. He didn’t think he’d ever seen him so low on his patience, so easy to irritate. But it was about time. Geralt pondered for a second whether he should go after him, apologize. For what, though? He didn’t feel sorry. He just felt something tug at his heart, recognized that as the familiar feeling of getting what he deserved — which had never, ever, been something good — and left it at that.

That night, he didn’t sleep. The bard didn’t come back, either. He thought he heard the faintly familiar sounds of a squeaking bed and the moans of a woman, but he couldn’t place who they belonged to or where they originated, exactly. Instead, he sat on his knees, palms up, relaxed, and meditated.

At dawn, he heard the creak of the door. Geralt forced himself to keep his eyes shut and felt for familiar sounds and smells. Jaskier smelled of sweat, alcohol and sex, though he couldn’t exactly place whether it was a different woman’s scent on him or the same one that called him a freak. His memories of the previous night were fuzzy and tainted. He heard footsteps around the room, a few satchels rattling, then a pause. The sound of a mouth opening, closing. Footsteps and again, the creak of the door.

A few seconds passed before Geralt opened his eyes, slowly adjusting after several hours of deep meditation. He observed the room, noticing that Jaskier’s stuff was missing. He almost didn’t feel his stomach drop as reality dawned on him. Almost.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, really, when, after he got dressed and grabbed his belongings, the pretty barmaid from the day before sat him down and pushed a large tray with an assortment of breakfast foods on it. “The bard requested it. He told us that you got rid of the corpse-eaters,” she had said, and Geralt didn’t dare think twice about what her words meant.

He ate in peace, left the barmaid a few coins for hospitality, and walked outside. Despite the mixture of smells, he could faintly make out his bard’s. Geralt had told himself he wouldn’t follow, that he would respect Jaskier’s decision to leave, but the nagging feeling in his stomach wouldn’t leave him. If there was one thing he trusted, it was his instinct, and it was desperately telling him to go after him. When the sharp scent of fear reached Geralt’s nostrils, he didn’t hesitate a second longer.

***

‘I thought you destroyed the fucking nest.’ Jaskier grumbled, holding an alcohol-sodden cloth to the wound on his abdomen. He was glad he was alive, but he’d much have preferred someone else to have taken on the ghoul that seemed to have looked at Jaskier and thought “brunch”.

‘I did. The fields are littered with corpses, there’s nothing I can do. You shouldn’t have gone out alone.’ Geralt was wrapping a bandage around the cloth, trying to keep it in place. He avoided Jaskier’s eyes.

‘Maybe I wouldn’t have gone out alone if my fucking Witcher wouldn’t be a self-absored asshole.’

His Witcher. Geralt pointedly chose not to focus on that part. ‘I thought you understood,’ he said instead, which was manipulative, he knew, but Jaskier was mad and he wouldn’t stay still and if the only way to make him less angry was to guilt-trip him into saying what was wrong, then so be it.

Jaskier’s anger faltered, bitter scent turning sweet, like rotting fruit. Sad. ‘I thought I did, too.’

Geralt said nothing, instead finishing up with the bandage and helping Jaskier up. Their gazes did not meet. ‘What happened?’ he asked, if only to quench the sinking feeling that wouldn’t fucking disappear.

Jaskier glared daggers at him. ‘That’s what I asked you too, Geralt, before you shut me out again and still expected me to bend to your will.’

You smelled like her. She called me a freak. You slept with her. ‘I never expected you to bend to any of my wills, Jaskier.’ That’s just you projecting what you think I need onto yourself.

The bard tilted his head, lips thinning. ‘Then tell me, darling, was I wrong to talk to you through your panic? Was I wrong to want to help? You should have seen yourself, Witcher.’ Witcher. Witcher freak. ‘Curled up into a ball, frightened for your life—’ Stop. ‘— sobbing into the sheets. What should I have done? Gone about my business, leaving you alone when I promised I wouldn’t?’That’s what you did, eventually. Geralt frowned, but said nothing. The pit in his stomach was growing heavier with every venomous word Jaskier spit out. This wasn’t like him, this wasn’t the bright, cheerful bard that pet his hair and looked at him like he was the sun. This is what I deserve.

His thoughts must have shown at one point, because Jaskier gulped suddenly and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were brimming with tears. ‘I love you, Geralt. I’ve fallen in love with you the second I saw you, and I’ve only grown to love you since. But you have to understand—’ I do. ‘— I’m not made of stone.’ I know. ‘I can’t just keep pushing and pushing and hoping you’ll let me in, when you have no idea how to turn the fucking door handle. I’ve never seen you as desperate as last night and then—’ He gulped again, as if trying to swallow back tears. ‘Then you thanked me, Geralt, didn’t even dare to look me in the eye as you did and still, all you could think about was that woman I fucked. You looked at me once like I’ve looked at you every day for the past decade, and I, for the first time in my life, felt seen.’ Jaskier laughed, hollow and wet with tears and Geralt felt like someone punched him in the gut, twice for good measure.

‘It was all I could smell on you, Jaskier. I needed familiarity and an anchor and yet all I could think about was the fact that you smelled of someone else. You don’t understand how jarring—’

‘But I do, Geralt, I do!’ Jaskier’s eyes flashed. Geralt almost felt threatened by the menace in them. ‘For all your Witcher senses are worth, you don’t seem to notice that whenever you need an anchor but feel like I’m not adequate, you come back reeking of sex and cheap scented oils and I never complained once. I never pushed you away once. Even when you felt empty inside and used— because I could feel it in the way you latched onto me during the night— I was there for you, because I love you. Tell me, I beg of you, in the name of the Gods, why? Why do you suddenly care so much about who I fuck, when you’ve never once given a fuck about anybody else except yourself?’ He was heaving by the time he stopped speaking, tears streaking down his smooth cheeks. Geralt nearly reached out to touch them.

‘She called me a freak.’ He felt something akin to shame in admitting that it had affected him. It shouldn’t have. Jaskier didn’t need to filter his bed partners by who liked Witchers and who didn’t. Still, his face softened.

‘I never did. Why is that not enough?’

Geralt didn’t know. He didn’t know how to explain the dread in his stomach, the ache in his chest whenever he thought Jaskier would leave him. Didn’t know how to justify the fact that he never let on to wanting him around, yet always felt his absence when they parted ways. Didn’t know how to explain the way he would feel spikes along his spine whenever he felt Jaskier’s natural scent sour with fear. Didn’t know how to explain that whenever he opened his mouth, there was a voice inside his head that told him he’d just fuck things up even more. Instead, he did what he knew best: lied, to Jaskier and to himself both.

‘It just isn’t.’ He’d lie to the both of them until it became the truth.

***

Jaskier thought he’d suffered from a broken heart during his youth. Several, in fact, but he had always found it peculiar that it was always a new heart to break, never deterred by fears or doubts rooted in past failed affairs. He made a point to always wear his heart on his sleeve, as he assumed he’d never run out.

In spite of this, when the words “It just isn’t” left Geralt of Rivia’s mouth as a response to what had basically been Jaskier handing him his heart on a silver platter and asking “Is this satisfying to you, my Lord?”, he couldn’t help but throw the meanest punch he’d ever thrown in his life. Of course, the bastard had let him; there was no way he couldn’t have caught his fist with his little finger, even distracted, as he had been. But it felt good. The pain in his knuckles made for a great distraction from the fact that the last intact piece of his heart — the Witcher’s special edition — had shattered, torn, dissipated in thin air, or blood, or whatever.

Jaskier was barely catching his breath, the surge of adrenaline having left his body as soon as it came. He glanced at Geralt, who had the decency to palm at his nose and look confused, if not a little impressed. ‘Suppose I had that coming.’ Oh, great. He wasn’t even going to get a reaction out of it. Instead of storming away, like he had intended before something possessed him to punch a fucking Witcher, he took a good look at Geralt. Jaskier was hurt, he really was, but punching his beautiful face kind of took the edge off his anger, leaving his mind a little clearer than before. He straightened his back and pointed an accusatory finger at him.

‘You fucking bastard.’ Geralt raised his brows. ‘Look me in the eyes and say that to me one more time, if you truly mean it, and I swear on Melitele that I’ll leave you alone, for good. But if you can’t fucking tell, Geralt, I’m not stupid. I could have believed you the first time you uttered those dreadful words, but I chose not to, because I know you. So help me, Gods, if I willingly let you stomp on the last heart I have to give, make it worth it. Tell the fucking truth.’Geralt’s expression was… thoughtful, at best and completely blank, at worst. Jaskier wouldn’t dream to understand what was going on through that thick head of his, but he had a feeling that Geralt’s thinking process halted, for a second. That was okay, he could use the breather. He genuinely didn’t like arguing with his friends, even the ones he was helplessly in love with, but the thought that Geralt would throw a decade of companionship away without a second glance made something twist painfully in his gut. He couldn’t let himself be swayed by a Witcher’s deeply flawed logic — they were astute creatures, usually, but completely dull when it came to emotions. Jaskier felt a familiar flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought, one that he thought he’d lost completely. He had to fight to keep the smile off his face. There it is.

Geralt’s little stunts of self hatred shouldn’t feel endearing, really, but Jaskier has many self-destructive habits and he loves himself the way he is. If only a certain brooding, white-haired mass of pure muscle would take a page out of his book. Jaskier sighed. Patience wasn’t quite one of his strong suits, but when it came to the love of his life, not much could deter him. Even if that love was unrequited. He’d lived with that for a decade, he could manage a couple more. If only Geralt would stop blankly staring ahead and actually talked to him, for once, instead of letting Jaskier do all the work of picking up his broken pieces.

Perhaps magically, his wish was granted. He managed to keep a straight face as Geralt’s gaze focused again, eyes snapping to Jaskier’s. ‘I—’

Jaskier’s ears perked up. A word! That was definitely a step forward.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

And there it went, ten steps back.

Still, Jaskier waited. He didn’t quite have all the time in the world, but he’d give most of what he had to Geralt without a second thought. Maybe if he actually got rejected, he could work on those self-destructive tendencies of his.

‘I think—’ Oh! Two steps! ‘I want to say something, but I don’t know how.’

Jaskier sighed in relief, looking up at Geralt in earnest. Gods, he really was hopeless. ‘That’s okay. Thank you for telling me instead of grunting and changing the subject. I’m still mad, though, and I think some honesty on your part could do both of us a lot of good.’ When Jaskier learned to talk to scary Witchers like they were children, he wasn’t sure. At least it seemed to work, because Geralt gave him a tiny nod and stared ahead again, possibly choosing his words.

Jaskier just stared, mostly. At the scars on his face, at the slight bend of his nose, more prominent after being punched straight on, at the way his eyes glinted in the sunlight and his hair gently fluttered with the breeze. He really was a beauty, he only hoped Geralt would find the courage to cherish him, at least like the friend he was, or else… Jaskier lacked a lot of things, but verticality was not one of them.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed until Geralt’s eyes focused again.

‘I’m sorry.’ Oh. That was new. ‘For pushing you away when you tried to help. For lying to you. For a lot of things. But you should be sorry, too.’

Oh? ‘For what, my dear Witcher?’ Geralt rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

‘For not listening. For assuming what I need and being upset when you didn’t assume correctly.’

Jaskier huffed. ‘I don’t assume. Even when I do, it’s usually because you don’t use your words.’

Geralt pursed his lips. ‘I’m sorry for that, too.’

Jaskier couldn’t help but reach up to smooth the lines around his mouth. Geralt leaned into the touch.

‘I apologize for leaving instead of using my words. I should practice what I preach, shouldn’t I?’ Jaskier’s eyes glistened as a fond smile overtook his frown. Geralt hummed, seemingly content. But he wasn’t done, not just yet. ‘I asked for honesty, and I thank you for giving that. But I also ask something else of you.’ Geralt’s eyes, which had fluttered close at Jaskier’s soft touch, opened again, but he didn’t speak. ‘I don’t ask for your romantic love, or for sexual favours, or monogamy. All I ask is that you know very well what I am to you, and treat me accordingly. If I’m nothing but a passing fancy, tell me and toss me away at the first opportunity. But don’t lean into my touches like you’re doing right now, looking like you’ve found the most comfortable place on the Continent. It does funny things to my poor, battered heart.’‘I thought you had more to spare.’ Of course Geralt would focus on the least important part.

‘Hm, so you do listen when I speak. You can pretend to be annoyed, I don’t mind, as long as you don’t let me wonder if you’re really pretending or not.’

Geralt hummed. ‘Jaskier, you’re asking me for clarity where there’s none to be found. I don’t know what you are to me, or what I want you to be. I definitely feel like I’ve found the most comfortable place on the Contient, though.’ Jaskier’s hand hadn’t left his cheek. The words both warmed his insides and clawed at his heart.

‘I don’t need clarity, then. I just need to know that I’m not imagining the things that make me love you ever more.’

‘Such as?’

Jaskier clicked his tongue. ‘Always knew you’d fish for compliments at every chance.’

‘Come on, tell me.’ Geralt straightened his neck and took Jaskier’s hand in his.

‘Things like this. The fact that you’re holding the same hand that punched you just moments ago.’ Jaskier’s eyes widened as Geralt lifted it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. ‘Or that. That works, too.’

‘If little things like these build love, I suppose I should’ve written you ballads, by now?’

He was obviously joking. Geralt was joking, but Jaskier couldn’t help the small shiver that went down his spine. ‘Don’t tease me like that. It hurts you less to keep silent than it does to remind myself it’s not real.’

Geralt frowned. ‘I can’t put into words what you are to me, Jaskier, but I’m not as cruel as to purposefully hurt you. You asked for honesty, didn’t you?’

Jaskier met his gaze. ‘I did. Can I ask you a question, then? You’ll give me an honest answer?’

‘If I can, yes.’

‘What do you feel right now?’ Jaskier lifted Geralt’s palm to his mouth, his lips ghosting the calloused skin. He followed the Witcher’s gaze carefully, as if the spell could break at any moment.

‘I’m not sure what to name it. My heart beats faster, I feel warm.’ Geralt’s gaze moves from his eyes to where his lips are almost touching his palm. Jaskier follows the movement and presses his mouth against it. Geralt sucks in a breath, and he smiles against his callouses.

‘Why did you care that I smelled like that woman?’

Geralt stiffened, spell broken. ‘I told you.’

‘I also smelled like five other things. Alcohol, food, sweat, those didn’t matter. Why did she?’

‘She called me a freak.’

‘Not the first one, and, despite my heroic efforts, probably not the last, either.’

Geralt frowned. ‘She called me a freak and you slept with her.’

‘The other way around. She said that after the deed was done, I felt disgusted. Told her you sucked my dick better than she did to shut her up.’

‘You told her, what?’

Jaskier grinned cheekily. ‘Guess we’re even? You admitted to being jealous and I admitted to whatever that was.’

‘I wasn’t jealous.’ Geralt almost looked like a petulant child, crossing his arms and looking away from Jaskier. He didn’t let that phase him, though. Instead, he gave the turned cheek a kiss.

‘Sure you weren’t. Next time, please start with that, instead, and I promise I’ll choose my partners better and wash their scent off before you can even catch a whiff.’

Geralt didn’t seem impressed. Jaskier pulled his best puppy face and pouted. ‘You can’t be mad, I was supposed to be the mad one. Let’s get a move on and talk this through later, yeah? It’s almost noon.’

With a sigh, Geralt used both his hands to hoist Jaskier on Roach. He shrieked, surprised then absolutely delighted, as he took the horse’s reins and guided her along the dirt path. ‘Apology accepted, my dear Witcher.’

‘Don’t get used to it,’ his dear Witcher grunted, but Jaskier did, regardless. He had big plans for their friendship and, for once, didn’t feel like he needed extra hearts to spare.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have suggestions, complaints, compliments or just want to yell with me in Gay Panic you can find me on Tumblr at @daddykatsuki.
> 
> Kudos and bookmarks are appreciated, but comments make me want to write more! <3


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